


Hate-sex, And Whatever The Opposite Is

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Available to Podfic, Blasphemy kink, Crowley likes the burn, From fighting to boning, Hate Sex, M/M, Other, PWP, Power Struggle, Rated R for courtyard sex, Robin hood Crowley, Top Aziraphale, Working out aggressions, aggressive sex, bottom Crowley, crusader Aziraphale, things used as lube that should not be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 20:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Love, Hate, and all the Human things that happen in between.Crowley and Aziraphale interact sometimes outside of the Arrangement but they're still not at a place they can accept anything from each other, they don't have their own side, not yet, and it shows.





	Hate-sex, And Whatever The Opposite Is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samvelg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samvelg/gifts), [sosobriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/gifts).

Hate and Love are not the opposites most people seem to think they are. They’re two sides of the same coin, so closely intertwined that they’d be impossible to tear apart from one another. The passions of Love and Hate were the depths of fire, colored with impulsivity and red creeping in around the edges. Love and Hate were poignant hurts buried deep in the soul, choked like the tangled thorny stems of wild roses, all of it so similar they might as well be the same.

And, sometimes, they were. Angels were beings of love, created from it, made up of it, and incapable of anything else. Love encompasses so much, it holds together righteous anger on behalf of others, it lifts up worry and elates over the accomplishments of others, it watches over the lovely and broken pieces of those it’s meant to care for and, sometimes, its impassivity is born of a love of duty rather than a love of people.

Demons, on the other hand, were beings of hate. Love twisted into something else, something not darker but certainly angrier. Love has its dark spots too, the obsession of it and all-consuming desires. So too does hatred, though its obsessions and desires are far more straightforward and rarely delude itself into thinking it’s for the benefit of another, though it can trick itself quite well into thinking it healing. Hatred cannot heal, it can only rend and claw, and the demons like it like that, thank you very much. They like the way the scabs and pustules hurt when they’re picked at and prodded and they  _ like _ the way the hatred fuels the hellfire in their veins. They like being Unloved. Of course.

There were two such celestial creatures, an angel and a demon, who were widely considered to be Not Very Good at their jobs (which was to be an angel and a demon, respectively), though in this they excelled. One at Loving and the other at Hating and all the mix therein. Unsurprising, considering their history and their dubiously holy and unholy natures and their suspiciously selfish and good deeds. 

Crowley growled at the four-letter-word that slipped from Aziraphale’s lips, almost as if he hadn’t thought about what he was saying. But the intense, heated look in the angel-blue eyes said otherwise, that he was purposefully stoking the Hate into full flame in Crowley’s gut. He gripped tightly at the front of Aziraphale’s tunic and whirled him around with a burst of Demonic Strength - sparks of Hellfire flickering behind dark glass hiding bright and equally intense eyes - into the wall behind him. Aziraphale stumbled as he was pulled and manhandled - demonhandled - against the stone wall with enough force to make the castle they were beside shake.

“I am not  _ nice _ ,” Crowley hissed angrily, voice low and dangerous in the way only humans can be, words filled with deadly promise and contempt and Hate. Promises that might be deadly for both of them, contempt for the holier-than-thou Crusader pinned between himself and the stone and mortar walls, hidden from easy view by tangled vines and large leafy trees common to the area, and Hate for whatever small spaces dared exist between them still. His eyes through the dark glasses were on Aziraphale’s lips, and likewise, the angel’s eyes were on the demon’s lips. Neither dared breathe for worry it would shatter whatever this moment between them was into thousands of pieces, never to be whole again.

“I  _ stole _ , Angel,” Crowley switched tactics, shattering the moment just like they’d feared, attempting to incense the angel in his hold, “There’s nothing  _ good _ about that. People are calling me Robin Hood, just for that. I know you’ve heard, you look just the right amount of disappointed. I’m a  _ demon _ , Aziraphale, and  _ nothing _ will change that.” He spat in derision, not noticing his hands loosening their hold on the soft, quartered tunic. 

Aziraphale’s eyes flew up to meet Crowley’s through stained glass and the holy warrior scowled, reaching up swiftly to take thin wrists into bruising grip and forced the demon to his knees in front of him with it. 

“I really ought to smite you here, then, foul fiend. Thou dragon.” His voice was cool and measured and devoid of all feeling, the same as his eyes which were as bright and empty as the clearest of skies.

“Do it.” Crowley writhed, hissing when the Angelic Strength of the hands on his arms burned with Grace and he knew he’d have scars on his wrists like iron shackles for years to come until he shed it off, and already he was looking forward to the burn he’d be able to induce from them on cold nights down the road.

“No.” Aziraphale intoned, voice like a death knell. Were Crowley any other demon he’d be frightened. Instead it simply churned the crucible of Hatred until it was white-hot in his gut and his veins felt flooded with molten fire. “I think I shant.”

“Then what, Angel?” Crowley said, voice like the smoke of a bonfire and dark with scorn. “Whatever it is, I’m your Adversary.” The word was heavy between them.  _ Adversary _ , enemies, easy to parse, but the phrase itself.  _ I’m  _ your  _ Adversary _ , that was something else entirely. If there were two people in the whole of the world who could speak in layered meanings and hidden significances it was these two, to whom every word had years of history behind it and each interaction filled with clandestine connotation.  _ I’m your Adversary _ , it sounded a lot more like  _ I’m yours _ , if anyone else had been nearby to hear it. But they weren’t, and so it remained as it was, heavy air between two hereditary enemies and ringing between them a lot more like  _ I’m the one you’re looking for _ , if I’m the one you’re looking for was best used in reply to a challenge.

Suddenly Crowley struck out, attempting to push Aziraphale off balance and pull his wrists back to break the grip on them all in one fluid motion but the angel’s grasp on him wasn’t to be impeded and they both went down. Crowley fell to his side as Aziraphale thumped gracelessly onto his back, though it didn’t keep him long. The warrior quickly recovered his wits and rolled them both over to straddle Crowley’s hips and pin his hands to the ground beside his head. 

“Poor move, scapegrace.” Aziraphale muttered darkly, like a storm cloud gathering in the distance and threatening to blot out the sun. Crowley sneered widely and flashed his teeth, two of which had thinned slightly and sharpened into pseudo fangs and over the tops of his glasses it was easy to see that the gold had overtaken the entirety of his eyes.

Crowley's eyes narrowed and he hissed again, "Keep this up and I ought to hue and cry." The threat was useless, they'd never have believed their beloved knight capable of anything untowards, and if they did all those in the castle would likely blame Crowley anyway, a common outlaw. The people might have been on his side, but the power dichotomy between them seemed vast as an ocean like this. 

Aziraphale leaned in until his nose was nearly touching Crowley's, a mockery of their previous positioning. "You won't." And Crowley would be _ blessed _ if he was wrong about that. He grit his teeth in a snarl and bucked his hips unceremoniously, doing his best to upend the angel atop him in any way and pressing upwards to pull his hands in front of him for any bit of give there might be in the unrelenting grip. As luck would have it, Aziraphale shifted his weight at just the right moment for Crowley to roll them over, his wrists still held tight but no longer trapped under holy hips. Though this did place him in the somewhat awkward predicament of being caught between plush thighs and laying across his Adversary's body, stomachs pressed together, no space between them except for the cavernous expanse between their sides. Though, it suddenly didn't seem so important. 

Their eyes met and a static charge filled the air, the ghostly scent of ozone rose between them, as did their corporal bodies, hardnesses notable as it pressed against softer flesh. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky darkened into umbra as the world seemed to tilt and windmill with the two of them at the nexus of it all. Aziraphale gave in first, yanking Crowley up by his hands. Sweet, delicious friction racing up their bodies where they touched and Crowley moved against him, burning through their layers of clothing, all to satiate the magnetic pull of their lips, equal and opposite forces attracting each other, helpless to stop it or pull away. 

Crowley wasn't sure which of them that indecent moan had been ripped from, it may very well have been him, but he couldn't be bothered to care as his tongue was sucked into Aziraphale's mouth from where he'd been intending to plunder with it. His wrists were still held, bound by Holiness, and he broke away from the kiss long enough to wriggle himself upright, straddle Aziraphale's hips properly, and then chase the same magnetism that the molten fire in the earth brought forth in a clash of lips and teeth. There was nothing soft about this battle of wills, for dominance and satisfaction, and most importantly of all, the need for plausible deniability. So they could each go to their head offices if asked and show proof they'd been in a fight with their Adversary, in a match of strength and will, and that they'd come out of it scathed but victorious nonetheless. 

An eternity hung between their chests as they kissed, pulling them impossibly closer and pushing them away like the dance of the tides and the moon, forever locked in each other’s orbit and entirely incapable of anything else. They might have seperate lives or differing goals or opposite destinations but they’d never escape this. And they didn’t really want to either.

Crowley’s hands curled into claws and he attempted to get a grip on Aziraphale’s tunic to rip it off but the angel was a  _ bloody bastard _ and smirked against his lips as he kept Crowley from exposing him. Growling against sweet lips he curled his tongue around Aziraphale’s and ground his hips down, dragging a moan from the back of Aziraphale’s throat. A  _ snap _ sounded, muffled against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and suddenly their clothing was haphazardly opened and partially divested from them. Miracles would be recorded and judged by their respective head offices, and so they had to be careful with the wording of them, but generally Crowley had quite a bit of leeway with things that might cause Sinning (such as Lust or Greed) and Aziraphale tended to lace his own with euphemism most Angels wouldn’t understand. 

They each had enough clothing to be able to pretend at modesty if they’d been interrupted, but it would have certainly been only a pretense considering their missing tunics and belts, which had been flung to the ground around them in Crowley’s preoccupied state, and untied breeches.

Aziraphale gasped against his mouth, Crowley eagerly swallowed the sounds he wasn’t often able to steal from the angel. Having decided enough was enough he applied another good dose of Angelic strength and turned them again, finally releasing Crowley’s wrists and very pointedly not looking at the fingerprints left in burnt-skin red left behind, as he leaned forward to cage the demon in below him, a forearm over Crowley’s chest to pin him to the ground, a hand like an iron band over his hip, and knees spread in a way the forced Crowley’s hips to cant up and thighs to splay open like a common slattern. 

Crowley panted, a bit red in the face and eyes at once hazy with lust and impossibly fixated on Aziraphale’s face. His hands raised up to Aziraphale’s tunic and, with a wicked grin, ripped it open, nails scratching over the soft layer of flesh over dense muscle of Aziraphale’s chest, leaving behind red welts and pinpricks of punctures that didn’t bother to bleed but wouldn't be able to be healed with a miracle due to their demonic origin.

“Wicked fiend.” Aziraphale said, like a fond epithet rather than a curse. They both pointedly ignored that too. 

“Get fucked, Angel.” Crowley’s voice was breathy and strained as he attempted to throw vulgar slang - too new for Aziraphale to fully grasp it likely, but considering the circumstance could likely imply the meaning - feeling both vulnerable in this position but also like there was no place he’d rather be than in the arms of an angel, this angel really. All the others could fuck right off, but he’d very much like to entice this one to fuck  _ him _ . 

Aziraphale gave a pointed look in return, “Considering your circumstances,” he pressed up against Crowley so his knees were underneath his hips, forcing him to spread even wider and hips angling up even further until they were shifting against each other with every minute, involuntary movement of their corporeal forms shivering and gasping and reacting to each and every sensation, “It looks like you might be more in danger of that.” Crowley  _ ngk _ ’ed and attempted to wriggle out from the weighty arm over his chest but found himself well and truly pinned, even what Demonic Strength he had available to him wasn’t enough to edge out the Angelic Strength of one who had been built to be a warrior (rather than the creator Crowley had been stacked up as, all lanky and dexterous which was only an advantage if he hadn’t been caught, once he was, well, then he was at his angel’s  _ mercy _ , which angels don’t often have for demons and that demons wanted even less from angels).

Another snap, this time from Aziraphale, and Crowley’s breeches chapped, splitting right up the middle and falling down his legs, leaving him entirely exposed and he gasped another moan, indecent and loud and half smothered by a fierce kiss that felt a lot more like a bite and a challenge than anything which could be considered nice or loving. Just the way they liked it - or rather, just the way they had to like it, anything else was inviting retribution, anything else was too close to admitting that this Love-born Retribution and bringing a demon to heel was actually just Love and this Hatred of Holiness and desire to Sully it was really just Love too. But since they didn’t admit it, and they didn’t think about it, and they didn’t act on it either, it didn’t really matter. They had their wounds, they danced their dances, and they came together in a clash of bodies with violent ends pulled from them as they screamed. The hand on Crowley’s hip left, leaving another mark burned into his skin, and Crowley clawed furrows into Aziraphale’s shoulders and up along his sides and hips attempting to grasp at any sort of purchase, fire still burning in his molten gold eyes to match the lightning blue intensity in Aziraphale’s. He keened for a half-second in the back of his throat before it was cut off with a sobbing gasp as Aziraphale pushed himself into the demon, hips stuttering and a minor miracle forcing Crowley’s body to painlessly adjust to the thrust of Aziraphale’s burning holy lance, slick with anointing oil.

Crowley screamed, back arching up against Aziraphale above him, staunchly unmoving once their hips were flush against each other again, waiting until Crowley sobbed explicatives at him with a snarl on his lips and wrapped long legs around his waist for any sort of leverage to fuck himself on Aziraphale. After another eternity passed between their heavy breaths slicked with the sweat of their brows they continued their trial, Aziraphale’s hips moved, snapping back and forth in a punishing pace hitting his target and sensitive nerves with every stroke. Crowley goaded him on, suddenly realizing he could grab a handful of white-blond hair and wrench Aziraphale down into another bruising kiss. Aziraphale groaned and his hips stuttered for a moment before he doubled down on pacing and snaked the hand not occupied with holding Crowley down to wrap around him, also coated in the same oil, making Crowley hiss through teeth bared into the kiss. His hips bucked up nonetheless and his eyes closed involuntarily at the sensations threatening to overwhelm him.

“Oyez, Aziraphale!” Crowley cried out, gripping at the angel’s hair tighter and throwing his own head back in mounting ecstasy. The holy kind, of course, the kind that hurt. It was the only kind of ecstasy a demon and an angel would be allowed with each other, the kind that hurt. The kind that had consequences.

“I’m listening.” Aziraphale murmured, voice low and sounding fucked out already, tight in his throat as his effort was focused elsewhere. The wet sounds of flesh slapping together sounded more obscene by the second and Aziraphale only added to the cacophony by licking up the column of Crowley’s throat and humming blissfully at the salty, sulphurous taste of demonic skin, scraping his teeth along his jumping pulse, and sucking loud, bright red spots over jutting collarbones that would surely deepen into dark bruises come the following morning.

“Aziraph- Angel!” Crowley cried out, arching again and raking four gouges into Aziraphale’s side as his other hand tore at soft curls before biting down into his own lip to stifle his wail until blood pooled in the corners of his mouth and his fangs punctured his lip as he came in bursts over his stomach and Aziraphale’s hand which continued to stroke him into oversensitivity, grip tight and milking every last bit of essence from his body. 

Aziraphale was soon to follow as he felt the demon below him and around him tighten with every shock and shudder of his ecstasy before falling limp in bliss and fatigue, giving up his own seed and spilling within Crowley until he felt his fluids mixing with the oil dripping from where they were connected. Time stopped again between them, the tenderness of afterglow and hormones flooding their corporeal forms urging them to lay down and sleep, but they forcibly restarted it, pulling away from each other and not making eye contact as they gathered the strewn clothing. Crowley cleaned them up, his own demonic miracles a bit more suited towards the debauched without questions being asked and worded in such a way as to protect his partner from being revealed, and didn’t bother to fix his breeches, instead choosing to lengthen the tunic into a dress and morphing his visage into that of a soft looking noblewoman by the name of Maid Marian. 

“Escort me?” It wasn’t really a question, though it was somewhat of a peace offering. Aziraphale could use this as an excuse to return to the court he’d left to chase off the demon, saving an innocent maiden from the scoundrel of that dastardly Robin Hood, and Crowley could use the introduction into seducing some noble or other into sinning one way or another.

“Of course, fair maiden.” And that was that. Aziraphale would leave the next day, return to the Holy Land of the Crusades and try to save all the books and knowledge and people he could because it was Right even if it hadn’t been deemed Good and Crowley would continue the charade of Maid Marian and Robin Hood until he became a folklore hero because it was what was Wrong even though it wouldn’t be thought of as Evil despite the stealing and lying.


End file.
